


checkmate / soulmate

by somehowcoffee



Category: Deltarune (Video Game), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nonbinary Character, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, not chronological
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-09-16 17:31:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowcoffee/pseuds/somehowcoffee
Summary: a sequence of loosely related self-indulgent, possibly ooc one-shots in lowercase regarding a megalomaniac and a vaguely angelic babysitter.(semi-chronological.)(quite embarrassing.)





	1. in which the king did not fall as much as he did plummet

**Author's Note:**

> mild violence, as well as general king-related nasty behavior in the beginning. shouldn’t be anything beyond that, though.
> 
> (updates weekly.)

lancer hides them from him, at first.

he catches glimpses of a large shadow in the hallway that disappears when he approaches. he’ll instead find his son sitting down, digging holes. there’s a conveniently placed light source to explain what he sees as a projection of lancer himself. 

to be honest, he’d suspected they were a ghost or shadow monster, not… something else entirely.

-

he first finds them on the roof, too close to the fountain. they’re a messy, hovering silhouette, but, launching into a fit of rage at their proximity—how could anyone have slipped past him?—he swings the whip over his head and snags their foot, dragging them towards him.

they engage—physically. lightner _scum_ has no place here. they’re quick, but he’s _strong_. terrifyingly strong.

he flings them off the roof and assumes he’s finished when he no longer feels himself in an encounter with them… up until an enormous shadow skyrockets up the side of the castle.

he turns his gaze to the heavens and watches an angel block out his view of the fountain itself.

for a moment, they hover before him, and he readies several spade darts. their display is impressive, true, but they’re merely a larger target with those wings. (at the time, he knows not how impressive it is, but it is enough that the image remains burned into his memory.)

they dive, twisting their form ‘til they’re more corkscrew than anything else.

though he’s given but a sparse window of time to react, he catches them, skidding a few feet back as he absorbs the impact. they merely have time to wince before gravity closes the rest of the distance. gripping tighter, he simply pushes downwards on their wings, grounding them. baring his fangs as well as bearing down on them, he rumbles, “you don’t wish to talk about this, i see. perhaps you’d feel more attuned to talking if i ripped off one of these.”

they’re writhing like a caught mouse. small hands grasp his cape, and he feels their white wings surge with a strength he hadn’t anticipated, using the very ground he’d pinned them against as something to rocket off of. with a grunt and twist of their hands, they knock him to the side.

he turns his fall into a roll, only to realize they’ve disappeared. he stops moving completely, yet still feels the crackle in the air of magic that is not his own, though it… fades, growing fainter with each passing second. teleportation magic? it’s rare, but not entirely unheard of.

giving the roof and fountain a further glance, he spots something out of the corner of his eye.

it is his son leading a large silhouette out of the castle through the garden.

-

the king has almost accepted that they cannot be disposed of. almost.

he listens to lancer call for them and observes their instantaneous appearance, he even _has_ lancer call for them—he’s trapped them multiple times, now—they always arrive in a burst of room-filling wings, regardless of what may be happening. there was even a point where he grounded lancer and locked the door. (he’ll give you one guess on what happened. they’re anything if consistent. his son doesn’t even need to vocalize, he simply needs to need them, and there they are.)

at the core, it’s a branch of loyalty that he knows neither he or his son have ever glimpsed. dedication detached from obligation. it’s little wonder his son adores them so.

so be it. if he cannot remove them, he will find some use for them.

-

“some use” includes entertainment.

they’re jumpy around him. with good reason, naturally, they _should_ fear their king, lightner that they are. truthfully, there is little time for entertainment, but that’s simply why he’s king. he can _make_ time, so he does, going out of his way to interact with them.

often, it’s plain observations of their body language—how their wings tuck around his son to protect him, how he’s watched said wings pull lancer closer to themself when they’d notice him, how they never bare their neck when they crane their head to look up at him (instead, they tilt their body back, meeting him as an equal), how their feathers bristle with alarm when he draws near.

or, perhaps, how they practically press themself against the other side of the throne room, covering their entire body with their wings in response to his interrogation.

“peekaboo,” they answer, and he knows it’s not their true name. he can tell that they’re waiting for his son to come in, to need them, but his son is sleeping. after a brief pause, he watches their wings puff up in a similar fashion to how a slighted rudinn raises its hood before the bite. “not that it matters, given we’re beyond names, aren’t we, you awful bastard?”

a low laugh. “such words from someone so _tense_. you recall our fight.” they recall how quickly he subdued them.

“that wasn’t a victory.”

he stands from the throne. “is that so, bird? here, a _reminder_.”

-

(they’re only getting started when they abruptly disappear, and he only learns later on in the evening about the night terror, how lancer’s automatic reaction was to call for his “best parent”, or, what he’d actually shouted, fat tears rolling down his cheeks—”zaza”, as opposed to “papa”.

he never instigates unnecessary conflict with them again.)

-

the thought really is quite sudden, yet it is a natural progression, and it goes like this.

_loyalty, obtained without the usage of fear or manipulation. a genuine desire to go out of one’s way and to expect nothing in return._

he can’t quite fathom it. perhaps he’ll attempt to earn such loyalty.

-

“peekaboo” is quite unhappy, save for in the presence of his son, and this is his doing. they have no desire but to see the child happy—or so it seems.

poor at emotional communication he may be, yes, but even he knows they would never answer him honestly. they’d rather talk circles ‘til the interest leaves him entirely. it takes a mere offer to cook his son’s favorite dish for him to get the little one to ask “peekaboo” if there’s anything that they would like.

lancer returns with a list.

half the points on it are puns, or jokes meant for him; there’s a portion where the two of them drew a few rudinn in crayon; and a quarter of the list is simply things lancer himself would enjoy. the king takes it and ignores the baffled look rouxls kaard gives him when he demands the serious half of said list, which includes a drawing notebook, several books he has never heard of, a warm scarf, and ‘lancer’s (accompanying ‘oh! that’s me!’ written in blue crayon) weight in dark candies’. at the bottom of the list, in blue crayon, is a simple,

‘love, if you want to make me happy, knowing that i can help you is fine. still, being honest? all i’d like would be for the guards to stop either trying to take me to the prison in the basement, or if they just stopped attempting to fight me. i have scared so many away!’

it's addressed to lancer, but such a solution is simple.

“if any attempt to impede or constrain their movement, save for the places none but myself may enter, i will know,” the king says, lifting one of the rudinn rangers by their hood. slowly, he squeezes their head in one of his hands, ignoring their pained whimpering. “do not make them uncomfortable.”

he drops them to the ground and leaves them a heap. it’s an easy fix.

he also keeps the list in his room, and only then does he sees his suspicions of himself are true : he is becoming blinded by his own sentimentality.

there’s a strong temptation to kill the feelings where they stand, before they grow any stronger, and he _does_ make it as far as to walk down the hallway to the guest room they’ve claimed for themself… except, he meets them halfway in said hallway and hears an,

“i—“

he rounds on them, but remains silent.

they’re holding a dark candy in one hand. though, almost as if embarrassed, they bring a wing in to cover it. “i’m… not here to create more problems.”

beneath his hood, he blinks.

they continue, “did lancer, ah, show you…”

ah, so they’re under the impression that lancer had him do this? they clearly overestimate the power lancer holds over him and underestimate their own.

“... never mind. i-i still appreciate it.”

‘never mind’? they’re backing down? he can’t have that. it’s not often he finds himself in such a unique position. if anything, he’ll squeeze whatever he can out of this.

“you appreciate what?”

uneasy, they shift on their feet. “that you, um, must’ve ordered the guards to stand down. you’re the only one who can. thank you.”

and what, do they think _his son_ gave them those gifts?

“if you are so determined to become my son’s primary caretaker, so be it. having my guards on your back simply used far too many resources. i myself can keep an eye on you.”

he is guilty of the very same loyalty he is intrigued by.

“... i see.”

decidedly, they both ignore the fact that rather than receive _lancer’s_ weight in candies, they received the _king’s_. a decidedly larger delivery, yes, yet he knows it won’t go to waste.

after all, he’s pleased to see they’ve already started on the pile.

a sweet tooth.

how cute.

-

envy wells up in him like rain in a bucket.

it’s strange—foreign, even, for him to crave the company of someone so badly. it’s frustrating— _they’re_ frustrating, and yet he can’t even consider attempting to remove them to solve the problem. he dislikes those who talk back, those who act with their own sense of justice, those sanctimonious enough to believe they actually know what’s right, those who never take matters seriously.

and _yet_.

rather than provoke him to crushing them with a squeeze of his hands, these traits are… appealing. endearing, even.

he is on his way to bed when the thought hits him. to think he was misguided enough to consider that what he wanted from them was their _loyalty_. it is hilarious in retrospect. he does not laugh.

there is little sleep that night, and frequent pacing.

-

he looks forward to the audiences that are held between them. truthfully, he’ll call them over even for minor queries if only to hear them speak. there is something unique held in the perspective of someone who knows so little about how things are typically done, something about how passionate they are regardless of whether they know what they are talking of.

they’re performing the job of a royal consort without wearing the title. watching and protecting his child, advising him.

he rests his cheek on his curled up fist, eyes tracing the arc of their wings, feathers brushing the wall tapestries. ever since he started cooking too much food for lancer—with the assumption his son would share with them, which proved correct—he’s noticed a gold tinge to their feathers. it’s especially prevalent when stuck with any form of light, as there’s a stained glass quality to it. this means they’re healthy, that they’re doing better _now_ than they were _before_.

(there’s a part of him that is proud for being personally responsible. it’s a large part. oh, fine, it is all of him.)

“—anyway, my point being that i think, based on what you’ve told me, that you should, um, pay them more? it would probably build loyalty, too. incentive.”

a blink.

“... was that long? i can try again, try to condense it.”

he missed it entirely. “that will do.”

he doesn’t want them to leave just yet, though. it is true they are a quick-thinker, and he is witnessing them in action, and they are indeed _something_ to witness, but he is a strategist. he needs to see them—all of them—before he can make the investment.

“... still, what of the lack of discipline?” he asks. “so many of my guards are lazy as a result of seeing no threat. i myself must keep them at the ready.”

wings pressing tight to their back, they answer immediately.

“well… this all comes back to how i talked about incentives! if they work and they know that there’s some kinda reward waiting for them rather than a threat…”

he watches them pace like a caged lion and watches passion illuminate them like a lantern and he watches them talk, wielding their words—

and he smiles to himself.

this is a very good side to them.

-

(they are ever so skilled at the job they do not know they have.)

-

the guards all scatter before them, though he is unsure if it is some doing of their own, or if it is his threat, his verbal guillotine looming above their heads.

and are they someone to be feared? oh, perhaps. true, the record shows they are not stronger than he is, but he’s always admired power, always been drawn. it is also true that with their wings, yes, they are intimidating, but he does not consider everything else until he hears a low, deadly voice speaking and realizes that it is not his own.

“i don’t need to involve anyone. disrespect me again and i can show you why i fell. your king knows of cruelty, yeah, but as the angel of knowledge, i’ll teach you the meaning of _violence_.”

oh? what’s this?

and then, a sigh.

“... hah, was that good? did i sound villainous enough?”

“that…” lancer’s voice waivers a little. “th-that was really really good! so good that m-my teeth keep ch-chattering.”

a pause.

“m’sorry. you’ll never be on the receiving end of it,” they say, and he can imagine the firm set of their shoulders, that conviction.

(there are multiple times the king himself is on the receiving end of such an ire-filled voice, and while there are indeed moments where it forces him to concede, it’ll more often have him respond to it with anger of his own. how _dare_ they speak to their king like that?

and then he’ll remember their promise was to his son and his son alone, and both their affection and obligation are to his son and his son alone, and his frustration only grows.)

-

he has no interest in the riches of the kings who inhabited the castle prior. those are not his, he did not take them, and he leaves them exactly where he found them. this, however, is not to say he is not selfish, or greedy.

it is the principle of winning things, the concept that what _he_ takes is _his._ the certainty of knowing what he wants to do and acting upon it and taking and taking and taking until he can no longer. until nothing remains. it is common for him to think, plan out over months—how do you imagine he seized total control of card castle with surprisingly little resistance?—to decide upon a certain course of action and enact it to a t.

the issue is this : he’s never experienced something like this, and he doesn’t know whether he is taking it seriously or otherwise. he _had_ a partner, once, as lancer came from somewhere, yes; and no, he does not reproduce through mitosis, regardless of how much lancer looks like a clone of himself.

still, his prior relationship had not been for anything beyond political gain, and when his partner had vanished, of course he’d felt betrayed, abandoned, furious, devastated—but was that feeling, that feeling he held prior… he’s unsure of what it was (is?), unsure of the true depth of it. uncertainty is a rare emotion for him to experience, and yes, perhaps now there is little else he would desire than to ensure _they_ cannot leave either, but for how long will he feel this way?

what does he want? the thought brings a scowl to his face as he grows impatient with himself.

-

there’s still a warmth in his chest at the sight of them, and to make things worse, sometimes, it aches. the feeling is especially so when they are before him.

he knows what he wants. perhaps, he always has known.

-

“you are still so tense. have i not shown you kindness?”

“with the knowledge of what you’ve done, and who you are, and what you intend to do, i cannot, with a good conscience, be civil. i don’t mean to be rude, but i don’t think we should linger on this topic.”

“abandon your virtue. you fell, didn’t you?”

here, their voice dips into that deadly murmur, “careful, now.”

“a threat? i’ve merely been a good host, and you cannot even repay me with loyalty?”

“what about the night we met?”

he narrows his eyes at the memory. “... what of it.”

“for a host, your greeting was pretty bad.”

it says something that rather than feel anger ignite within him, he smirks. “and you’ve been anything but a polite guest.”

this side, too, he likes.

-

the night brings wind, yet he stands where he must, exhausted and growing cold on the roof as he guards what is necessary. they are so close now, he stands vigil day-in and day-out, seldom entering the castle.

there’s a sudden gale and followed by a crackle of magic that envelopes him with warmth. he turns to it, snapping his teeth. “you’re late, bird.”

it’s merely pretense. in their arms is a sleeping lancer, his face tucked against their shoulder. there’s a softer flutter of their wings as they settle and regard him. they still never expose their neck, merely tilt their entire body in his direction. they do not trust him. he’s unsure if they ever will.

still with that firm stance and rigid shoulders, they dip their head to press a kiss to lancer’s head. “yeah. he got lost in the woods and wanted to learn his own way out, so he didn’t call me. i felt his need, though.”

(while you and i had an audience—is the unspoken—your son wandered off. he wonders if, internally, they refer to lancer as ‘his’, ‘my’, or ‘our’ son.)

he watches their shoulders rise, then fall. there’s something they need to say?

“you… should go to bed,” they say, and suddenly there’s nothing he’d like more to do. is that a tinge of concern he detects? regardless, he cannot let his guard down, however, not yet. “it’s late, it’s really cold—”

they’re wearing the scarf they requested. it’s a deep blue, with a white spade on the two ends of it. the fact that none of the stores sell such a scarf is not something he intends to bring up, nor is the manner of which he obtained it one he intends to bring up, either. there’s that ache in his chest, once more.

“—that is, if you don’t mind.”

he missed what they were suggesting. still…

“... i do not. mind, that is.” 

they take a step towards him, and he narrows his eyes in confusion, before he spots something large, white, and tinged with gold out of the corner of his eye, and slowly, giving him enough time to move out of the way, a wing brushes up against him. he sits down, and they follow suit, tucking up to him just close enough to be barely touching his side.

when they fall asleep, leaning on him, his son in their arms, their wings have completely shielded him from the cold, and it is his scarf and cloak that do the same for them.

he glances down, and looks at them. not their wings, not their magic, the small form that supports both of those things.

after a long moment, he nudges their head with the knuckle of his hand, and it tilts up. sleepily, they pull back and adjust their grip on lancer. the wing at his side pulls in a little tighter. it’s soft.

“go to bed,” he says, and for once, he can imagine that they do not loathe his being, as they stand, and he leads them, a hand pressed to the back of one of their wings, to lancer’s room, and then the door of their own. (well, what they've claimed to be their own.)

a yawn leaves them, and his lower mouth echoes it, followed by him.

“ _you_ should go to bed.”

they're tired enough to simply be echoing him. “what are you, a child?”

“you’re the one who was yawning.”

“spare me your wit for one night.”

ah, and this—this part of them is his favorite. the thought solidifies in his mind.

yes, he’s quite sure of how he feels, now.


	2. heal thyself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> updates come every sunday night / monday morn'.
> 
> ah, i don't imagine this contains anything beyond embarrassing nonsense, haha.
> 
> as with most one-shots, this takes place pre-game!

they’re awake, bathed in low lamplight. he can tell because they turn their head in his direction. he is barely illuminated, lingering at the threshold. stepping over a wing—it twitches—he approaches, settling himself next to their form.

his voice is a low murmur, almost timid. reverent.

“he cried. you frightened him.”

he does not speak of his resounding fury, the orders he barked at his guards. it’s for the best if they do not know. at the same time, they know of how he is. by now, they’ve got to.

some things are best left unsaid. he takes a deep breath to calm himself. (they smell like fresh laundry. a hum leaves him.)

“i did that?” they muse, and he cannot quite tell if it is genuine surprise in their tone. their voice is rough from sleep and there’s no attempt made to clear their throat.

he reaches a hand out, and they poorly suppress a flinch. irritation prickles at his spine, but he smothers it.

“temperature,” he says, and raises his hand again.

a soft chuckle leaves them. it’s a noise he responds to by leaning closer, against his better judgement.

“you’re inexperienced.”

he stiffens. _”what?”_ oh, he allows them to get away with _so much._ anger simmers below the surface.

it’s a slow movement, but they sit up. “you don’t know how to do it.”

“right,” he responds through gritted teeth. “and how do _you_ do it?”

“let me know if it’s no good,” they murmur, his only warning—and they’re leaning up and cupping his face, tilting it downwards, and he is _frozen,_ frozen solid—their hands are so soft and their entire body burns with fever—

they’re _standing,_  practically leaning over him, supporting themself with a hand on his shoulder. their wings move with the motion.

something warm presses against the top of his head, and there is nothing he loathes more than the hood veiling his face right now, though perhaps it is for the best, as if he wasn’t wearing it—

they pull back. his claws are digging into the floor with the physical effort to prevent himself from doing anything. he is going to break it. he has to tell himself to clench his hands into fists several times.

“since your lips are responsive to temperature—“

he can’t retain any of what's happening. they call him the cruel one? they’re ill, and they’re doing something like this?

“—they’re the best way to check…?” and then their voice tilts, as does their head, as they watch him stand.

by the time they finish their sentence, he’s stormed out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos, or a comment, or both !!
> 
> (... sorry for the varying lengths. many of these came from discord, so i've got quite a few stocked up... ! if there's anything you'd like to see in particular, or any questions you have, or any prompts, i could also attempt to fill 'em for you.
> 
> thanks for readin'!)


	3. tipsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> google docs original title : drunk fic except its deltarune and im sorry the whole time
> 
> contains alcohol and some very messy feelings. hope you enjoy =)

“ _i_  will take care of them,” he snarls, using his other hand to tuck their wings closer to their body. he adjusts his grip, nudging a stray feather with his cheek. they’re simply a dead weight in his hand, grumbling something about being sleepy. honestly, they’ve never been this close. if his guards and duke believe he’s going to give this up, they’re all fools. at the same time, they _are_ all fools. he knows what he’s doing.

the duke fidgets in response.

“sire, i was, m-merely suggesting that thou art unprepared to deal with--” he takes this moment to step forwards and _actually_ growl. the duke puts his hands up. “ri-right.”

-

sighing, he hands them another glass of water.

“what may be non-alcoholic for a darkner such as myself, may be alcoholic for a lightner like you,” he says, before giving them a toothy, mean grin. “... little bastard.”

a huff, some mumble of, "hateful man". their face-wings tilt upwards to let them drink. when they lower the cup, he can see their mouth’s formed into a pout. it’s terribly endearing, up until they start again. they’re a babbler when drunk, an honest one, provided you can keep them on subject.

“what _is_ alcohol, anyways? y’know, other than a substance that can be found in many weird places, including the universe? oh, did you know that there’s a really big cloud of raspberry-scented…” they reach for his hand, given they’ve been waving their own about, and he pulls it away. there’s a thin line between self-indulgence and self-harm, and he’s currently walking it. without missing a beat, they continue, twirling a finger in the air. “maybe it’s raspberry-flavored…”

he goes quiet as they continue to mull over it. he’s mulling, as well, though it’s over something else.

they stretch. “raspberries… i don’t really care for them? y’know, the flavor blue raspberry isn’t actually found in nature? ain’t it weird how we associate that with blue raspberry, even if, at the core, it’s all a lie?”

… truthfully, he has never been the type to mince words when it comes down to something he wants to know.

they’re in one of the older libraries of the castle, though it’s one that he’s already torn apart--he didn’t find what he needed in here, but he recalls the area where others may not, and it’s proximity is a mere plus. he can’t have anyone know their king sits at their feet (it puts them at eye level), he can’t have anyone know their king has a heart (that beats like a war drum), he can’t have anyone know their king asks questions such as--

“your opinion of me, what is it?”

how dare they not do what he wants them to do, honestly. how dare they have the _gall_ to leave his feelings unrequited. they reach for his hand, and he allows them, this time. there’s something bitter and dark sitting in his chest with the realization this would never happen given… normal circumstances.

“i have so many opinions,” they declare, as if he hasn’t been on the receiving end on every single one.

“my first opinion is that you’re the king, though,” they joke, resting their open hand on his palm. the comparison is astounding. then, they straighten up. “you’re the king, and it’s kinda become what you _are_ , right? you’re not just wearing the mantle of a title. you’re trying to fill a space.”

this is what they think of?

he closes his hand around their own. it’s tiny, almost fragile. he watches their large wings brush against the spines of books as they breathe. they’ll be allowed to rest only if they’ll satisfy his curiosity.

“your personal opinion on my being.”

he feels their hand curl into a fist. despite the wings covering their face, they turn their head away.

“i wish you would go against your nature,” they murmur. “you are not kind, but you could be. i’m not kind, but i try to be. nonviolence ain’t in my nature. i fell for a reason. anything i tell you, you file away to use against me later. you shouldn’t be so strategic. it’s okay to do things because you think they’re… fuckin’ neat. it’s okay to be uncomfortable, but we can’t get along because we’re too similar. you think everyone has an agenda because you yourself do.”

a small shake of their head.

“you harm your son with the way you act. it’s… weird. you push him away, but he’s a good thing. why’s that?”

he didn’t ask to be analyzed. scowling, he manages an, “enough. tell me of something else.”

“were i anyone else, i think you would’ve snapped my wings.”

his hand clamps on their own, tight. tight enough to break it, should he twist his wrist. “tell me of something else.”

-

when they finally pass out, he allows himself to relax, sprawling against the couch they were seated on. absentmindedly, he turns them to their side with the spade-topped whip-tongue coming from his middle. nausea is a symptom of being drunk, isn’t it? he doesn’t want them to die if they were to throw up, laying on their back.

a soft breath leaves him. perhaps, he, too, is drunk.

“bird, what would it take for you to hold an eighth of the affection for me as you hold for my son?”

he knows the answer. it isn’t so easy. they’re asking for a lot, and perhaps he is... partial to them, but he does not favor them.

they’re barely awake. they may think they’re dreaming. sleepily, they reach a hand out, and he takes it in his own.

and he stops breathing when they bring the knuckles of his hand to their lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays and if you don't celebrate, happy days. lov u and thanks for reading and being nice to me. ;_;


	4. ham-fisted atlas metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which peekaboo isn't the best example. they're called "zaza" here, a whole bunch, 'cause it's a gender-neutral mama/papa.
> 
> there's no actual violence, though there are threats, and implications. canon-typical, though.

“zaza, listen to my tunes with me!”

a snort. “i don’t have ears, and i know they’re splat noises.”

hah, they say that as if it’s a _bad thing!_ or, well, as if he’s playing some trick on them. he really does like the sound of ‘em.

“i don’t have ears either! i just attach tape to the earbuds.”

there’s a pause. “oh. got me there.”

“so, you don’t wanna?”

their response is a delighted clicking noise—one he can’t replicate, _yet_ —that leaves the back of their throat, and they confirm once more with a, “hah. of _course_ i’d love to listen."

he attempts to make the same noise, and they pat his back once he starts coughing. better luck next time. he’s getting better, and as they always say, fifty-third time’s a charm.

-

lancer knows that peekaboo, or zaza, is the result of the holes he dug in that one pattern, the same pattern that appeared on his back when they did so in his room. they’d assured him that the symbols were matching, but had then informed him he might not be able to see their symbol, and then dodged his further questions pretty well. still, the concept of matching was—is—a great one, so there’s that! maybe they can get matching jackets next.

honestly, there’s not more he can really want. they genuinely like him and want to talk with him, and as a bonus, they’re even a bad guy! (they hadn’t elaborated on _that_ either, but it’s okay.)

see, peekaboo isn’t even their real name. they’d told him to name them, and he had been caught up with the realization he couldn’t name them lancer jr.—they’re too big and also older than him—so he’d looked at the wings covering their face, and had remembered that game his dad used to play with him.

… there’s a lot he doesn’t know about his zaza.

chief of all, is what they’re thinking at any point, ever.

-

“we should go,” zaza says. he’d just woken up from a nightmare when they appeared in his room and held him. he’s lying entirely on one massive wing (technically, all four of zaza’s wings are huge to him, even the smaller ones that cover their face), stretching to see if any part of him can reach past it. the answer’s a big fat no.

“go?” he frowns. “i don’t get it, what do you mean? we can’t go.”

zaza answers in that super confident, there’s-no-room-to-ever-doubt-me voice of theirs, “we can. you can always flee. that’s always an option. don’t ever forget that. s’not weakness.”

-

(he watches the wings on their face twitch with the urge to part as his father looms above them. they’ve put themself between him and lesser dad, and they’re not budging.

his dad’s fists clench, and he orders them to _move or have it done for them_.

“do not threaten my charge.”

they lunge. he doesn’t remember what happens next.)

-

he walks by when his dad is speaking to them, when he’s supposed to be sleeping--it's not really his fault that he can't.

“unnecessary. you need not involve yourself.”

“if i interpret your actions as harmful against lancer, i have every right to retaliate.”

his dad leans forwards on his throne, interested.

“my, you are protective. what is your name?”

“peekaboo,” they answer, and lancer gasps as they follow it up with, “not that it matters, given we’re beyond names, aren’t we, you awful—“ and then they _curse_. it’s a level two curse word. uh-oh!

his dad laughs, low and dark. “such words from someone so _tense._ you recall our fight.”

they fought? was that before? lancer remembers them missing until he called for them and showed them the garden. at the time, he thought they were just tense because they were unfamiliar. thought they kept glancing back because this was a new place that made them nervous. that’s why he showed them the garden, to calm them down. angels like flowers, right?

“that wasn’t a victory,” zaza replies, and through the crack in the open throne room door, he watches their wings rise up behind them, all big and powerful.

but his dad is also big and powerful. he stands up and goes, “is that so, bird? here, a _reminder_.”

and lancer’s running through the hallways to his room, stumbling and tripping over himself, and he hears the booming laugh of his dad get cut short, and a loud crash, and he doesn’t want them to hurt each other, and he opens the door to his room and tosses himself into bed and cries,

_“ZAZA!”_

and there they are. they assume it’s a nightmare, and he doesn’t elaborate, just tucks himself into their arms.

his dad never attempts to threaten them like that again.

-

sometimes there’s progress with his dad, but it’s like they’re fighting a battle they can’t win.

his dad only gets meaner. it’s a slow change, one you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t his own son, but…

sure, his dad’s super hard-working, but he’s never told lancer he’s too busy for him, especially when it’s about a cool new worm he wants to show him.

zaza helps, just being there has that sort of effect—and lancer helps, too, but his dad just grows dark yet darker. zaza’s gotta notice, because they shield themself with their wings more often, hiding from his dad’s eyes. they tuck him away so he’s behind them always. they stand firmly between the two of them. they prompt lesser dad on ways to leave the room—“dukeman, didn’t you need to check up on the outskirts of the kingdom? something about vandalized puzzles”.

they keep everyone safe.

they’re good at it.

he can sometimes forget that his dad spends so much time guarding the fountain that he can’t cook, that he’s so unused to eating anything that’s not his father’s cooking that he’ll reflexively refuse most food as well.

lancer hasn’t actually seen his dad sleep or eat for a long time. he worries.

the kitchen’s king-sized, but zaza manages with lancer’s expert aid. he likes their food, even though they laugh and claim it’s not right since the ingredients are weird, and they substituted this with that so it’s kinda completely different. to monsters, intent is everything, and they intend to help.

(“nice! it tastes like protection!”

they let out a loud ‘hmm’, as if they’re thinking really hard about his response, before they laugh and go, “if you say so.”)

-

“we should go,” zaza repeats, sitting across from him as he colors the fallen scarlet leaves a deep shade of purple. he glances up and realizes he’s had his tongue stuck out as he concentrated.

“where?” he asks, tilting his head. there’s only the big, crumbling dark beyond the kingdom. he’s been all over, he knows.

a particularly hard gust of wind rustles the trees, and zaza spreads their wings just in time to shield him and his pile of purple leaves from going flying.

rather than a proper response, they let out a weak laugh—there’s not even the clicking sound he associates with it—one with an edge of something that makes him frown.

“i don’t know.”

-

there comes a night where he wakes to the sound of their restless silhouette viciously pacing a hole through the floor of the hallway from their room to his own. lancer doesn’t know how long he listens to the rhythmic beat of their footsteps, but it’s a decent amount of time. (like a march!)

he remains awake until they draw closer, in the direction of his room, and by the time they open the door, he’s already out like a light.

-

(one day, while not-spying on his dad—he’s definitely not spying. he’s just digging holes in the ground!—his dad pauses, mid-order to send someone to the dungeons, to glance to his left.

lancer follows his gaze out the window, and as if on cue, he spots zaza. they like flying around the kingdom, he knows this because they’ve told him, but he never knew that his dad paid attention to _when_ they go. for a moment, his dad’s eyes linger, and his shoulders drop, and he goes,

“... your sentence will merely be an eighth of your lifespan, not half. let it not be said i do not know of how to show mercy to my people.”)

-

they shouldn’t leave, because if they leave, everything’s going to get worse and they keep everyone safe and he can’t leave either.

despite everything, lancer loves his dad.

-

“let’s go?” zaza asks again, voice soft. their hand is outstretched towards him. “not safe for you here. we can go.”

“do you want to go?” lancer asks, taking their hand. if they really want to...

“my answer isn’t important, my love. do _you_?”

he frowns. “we… we can’t.”

“lancer. do you _want_ to leave?”

and...

he thinks about his dad, who is here and maybe they can do something to stop him (there’s a big cut on his dad’s face that he doesn’t remember being there always. maybe they can put a bandaid on it). he thinks about his lesser dad, who more tolerates him than anything else but still cares in his own way.

he thinks about his dad looming above zaza, a snarl on his face, thinks about how zaza looked in the face of his fury.

(resolved.)

and then, he nods.

-

they’re not going to be flying because they say that “the big one” has picked up a hobby of watching the skies. zaza says they think he’s monitoring them, but…

lancer doesn’t mention how their mere appearance reduced the sentence of the prisoner. he doesn’t even know what to _do_ with the information, or what it means, but it’s a connection that he’s able to make.

frowning, lancer lets zaza lead him through the winding paths, twists and turns, grassy fields, up until they reach the edge of the kingdom, and together, they enter a small town.

he kind of remembers being here, once or twice, but… it’s empty this time. it’s weird to see an empty town. maybe it’s always been empty. anxious, he watches them meticulously knock on each door and check around, but nobody comes. nobody’s there.

after a moment of circling the town, they turn towards the inn, position themself at the door, and say,

“alright. i will let myself in.”

ooh, that’s bad! breaking and entering is definitely a bad thing.

in one smooth motion, because they’ve absolutely done this before, they duck down and kick the door open.

breaking and entering is definitely a cool thing.

-

“how long are we gonna be here?”

zaza pauses to reach out and catch him before he slides off the banister. “as long as need be.”

“oh, okay. i don’t get it.”

clicking laughter. “that means i’m unsure, but whenever you’re ready to.”

the inn isn’t that bad. there’s lots and lots of beds (he’s trying to sleep in a different one each night!) and there’s a pretty well stocked main kitchen, even a few half empty cups scattered around.

“i… wonder where everyone went,” mumbles zaza. “seems as if it was a sudden departure. nothing’s put away.”

he frowns. “maybe they got scared and left.”

“... maybe.”

-

“have you been here before?” he asks as he takes another bite of his sandwich. after a moment, he pauses.

“wait. zaza, did you eat?”

they nod. “yes, and i did. nothing i make is… _right_ , though.”

“i think your cooking is really good, though!”

clicking, before they lean forwards and poke his cheek. there’s a squeaky-toy noise from him, and they hum. “naw, i know my food’s decent. it’s… it always comes off as different down here. maybe there’s some sort of effect ‘cause i’m a lightner? when the king cooked, i didn’t have as big a problem.”

“what’s the problem?”

“none of the stuff here… works. like, i don’t _need_ to eat, but it makes me a lil’ stronger. and, well… nothing’s worked. maybe it’s me. something’s wrong with my intent or something, that wasn’t an issue with the king.” another laugh. “for some reason.”

lancer lets their words hang for a little bit, unsure of how to respond, before he repeats his earlier question.

“... zaza, have you been here?” it never seemed, while they led him, that they were walking aimlessly. they knew where they were going.

“here specifically?” they ask. “as a matter of fact, yes. i’ve been to the treasure vault.”

“which… which one is that?” there’s four buildings.

they raise their wings up enough so he can see their smile. “guess.”

“the question mark one?”

the grin only widens, and then there’s a softer clicking from them. “guess one more time.”

“the one with the sword on the sign?”

“excellent! is there any reason you guessed that one, or just because you could?”

“both? we don’t need weapons, so we wouldn’t have a weapon shop. no one here really likes to fight.”

they nod. “you’re extremely perfect. the sign-maker was never the most skilled when it came to writing on the signs, so she preferred to draw pictures. unlike the others, it’s a warning sign."

oh.

-

there is a knock on the door downstairs, and he watches zaza go from resting—they sleep with their back against whatever bed he’s using, sitting on the floor between him and the doorway—to up, awake.

“love, i need you to go under the bed, please."

without a question or word, he nods, hiding beneath the bed-skirt. he peeks out, watches them stand motionless, the feathers of their wings pressed against the hardwood floor. listening.

he listens, too. the knock comes again, a little louder, a little faster. urgent.

“... i knoweth you’re in this one. the childe did dig many holes in the ground outside.”

even if lesser dad cannot see them, zaza fluffs and spreads their wings, before heading downstairs. lancer follows, no longer bothering to hide himself. zaza can take on pretty much everyone, anyways. they’re super strong. he stands behind them, peering over one wing.

they take a deep breath.

when they speak, it’s a time of voice he‘s only heard directed at his dad. it’s _sharp_ , low, and really well-enunciated, as if they’re making sure they don’t have to repeat themself.

“ _what_ do you _want_.”

a pause. behind the door, he wonders what lesser dad’s expression is.

then—“prithee, thee don’t und'rstand. with one of thee gone, p'rhaps t wouldst beest tol'rable, but both of thee? the monarch's ire is unrelenting. i begeth of thee to returneth.”

lancer deflates, glancing up at them. if everyone’s suffering, then they need to...

“absolutely not.”

huh?

rouxls drops his accent to blurt out a, “what?”

“my loyalty rests with lancer, and lancer alone, and to you and everyone in that castle, i owe _nothin’,_ ” says zaza. “i am not your savior. i am not,” and there’s almost pride in their words. “an angel _._ i’m an other kind of angel, and i do not act for _you_.”

“but—?!”

“dukeman, i’m a _fallen_ angel,” they state. “did you expect righteousness and virtue? i’m not your _shield_.”

they haven’t been willingly protecting everyone, then?

 _“do not threaten my charge.”_ so, it’s just… it’s just...

it’s just that others have always needed them. they’ve always been in the way—lesser dad, even some of the hathy and rudinn have coincidentally been between him and something else that wanted to harm him.

they really _only_ care about him. lancer frowns, and moves in front of them. they glance down, tilt their head. he watches their demeanor shift entirely, and understands further.

“zaza,” he says, softly. “you don’t care about them, but i do.”

he likes everyone. only some of them like him too, but that’s okay. he understands.

they shift, uncomfortable. “i will not treat them like i treat you.”

“that’s okay! it’s fine to have favorites! but… i think… i think we should go back.”

“i agree,” says lesser dad, and zaza’s head snaps up.

“hey. don’t talk.”

(“... okay,” comes the reply from behind the door.)

they crouch down to lancer’s level. “it’s dangerous there, everything as it is. i can’t guarantee safety like i can over here. i’m outnumbered, there. i’m overpowered, there. all i can do is try and promise, but…” their shoulders drop. “if you really want that, if it will make you happy and safe, i’m willing to continue for you.”

he…

“i’m sorry.”

they stiffen up. “what for? you’ve done nothing wrong, my love. you’re the one teaching _me_ the lesson, here. i should be apologizing. i need to be a better example for you.”

“i think… i’m being selfish.”

“ _who_ told you that—never mind, please don’t tell me, i’ll get very very upset. anyways, caring about other people is _not_ selfish. you’re already being diplomatic. when it’s tough to make a decision, it’s good to think about whether it’s a short-term or long-term solution. us not being there helps us, but for how long? if we’re there and i protect you and the others, it’s a good solution until we find a better one. you made the right choice. i did not. i’m very proud of you, baby.”

they’re proud of him...?

“thank you, zaza,” he says, leaning in and hugging them. after a moment, they return the favor, sighing. “and—and i think you’ll really like them a lot if you get to know them!”

they grunt in response, and he laughs. they open the door, and lesser dad breathes out. “thank—“

“ _hey_. don’t talk.”

lancer looks up, but they shake their head. “lancer, i will protect as you wish, but… don’t expect love and warmth from me towards everyone. i’m doin’ it because i love _you.”_

that’s fair!

-

they honor what they say.

when the three of them return to the castle, his dad bares his teeth with fury. or, well, he thinks it’s fury. but then… he simply takes a deep breath, and then his eyes go from zaza to lancer, and, abruptly, he leaves the room.

“where did half of the castle go?” zaza calls after him, and his dad turns, opens his mouth, and then closes it with a grimace, and continues walking.

“his royal highness didst not rest at all, and yond only madeth that gent m're irritable.”

“well, he’s heading towards his room anyways. might as well head towards ours,” zaza says, holding out their hand. lancer takes it.

as they walk down the hallway in the opposite direction of his dad’s room, lancer thinks. because—it’s weird. before, when his dad would get angry, he’d be quiet, but he’d still say something. now, his dad shouts a lot.

lancer recalls the time he got seriously hurt riding his bike, and how quiet his dad had been the entire time. he’d been upset, yeah, but...

the only time he’s ever really been quiet like that is if he’s been worried or scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, and i hope you have a wonderful 2019 !! let me know if you'd like me to put my twitter / tumblr over here, as an aside =)


	5. darkness rolls in, you'll forget who i have been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> now, let's try to earn that angst tag.
> 
> "if all these fics take place pre-game, where's peekaboo during the game?" i can answer that question you absolutely did not ask!
> 
> suggestive themes if you squint. squint really hard. canon-typical violence, and then some. generally, this is a darker one, given it's from the king's pov.

it’s not often the king personally manhandles the prisoners, but…

they’re struggling. still  _ fighting _ , despite their exhaustion. it’s frustrating and he doesn’t desire to harm them, and there they go—

“wh… what happened to holding favor, you piece of—!”

“silence. it is  _ favor _ that has earned you this.”

“you can’t keep me from him!” their voice dips, growls. “i am  _ his _ guardian angel!” their wings rise from their back like water tossed on a cooking fire. they’ve moved the fight to the cells rather than the throne room, with rouxls keeping his son busy. it is the small mercies.

he answers their desperate cry with a violent roar of his own. “and i am _ your  _ king! **_ENOUGH!_ ** ”

and the wings on their face part, and he catches a glimpse of bared teeth, and then he is blinded, a ringing in his ears—

_ < you grow so soft for them. your soul drips with the emotion, dear king. you smother it even now. > _

—he grunts in response, dizzy. he rushes forward, pushing them against the ground with a firm hand on their shoulder. he takes a deep breath and uses a pacify spell on the exhale. their wings push them up, struggling against both his weight and gravity.

“no—…”

and they  _ still  _ continue to challenge him, hands gripping his wrist.

they are impressive, he has never denied it. that’s the  _ third _ pacify spell, and while he’s seldom used it so frequently, his magic is strong, thrumming through his blood. there is a power to them, given conviction. 

faintly, he wonders—if they survive this, could there ever be a time they would willingly rule alongside him? right now, he could force them, claim like he’d claimed the throne. yet, there is no purpose in such a hollow victory. he knows himself, now. he cannot harm them, especially in such a fashion.

no, no, no.

this is it, why he needs to put them away. the lesser evil.

he grows tired of this.

“enough,” he repeats, looming above them.

sluggishly, his only indication the spell even _works_ , they go to kick him off and he catches their leg. he snarls, pushing them a little harder, switching from hand to forearm, nearly leaning his whole weight on them. their face-wings twitch in preparation to part once more.

“you can’t keep me here,” they say, grip beginning to weaken.

inhale. exhale.

pacify.

finally, finally, finally, they go limp.

-

“see to it the winged prisoner remains in their cell. keep an eye on them.”

one of the guards tilts their head. “you mean peek—“

and then they’re flung across the room, a trio of spades embedded in their body.

the king bares his teeth in a humorless grin. “i was to address the consequences of mentioning them, but an example is fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed,,, ! if u did please lmk !
> 
> i still have a considerable backlog of these, but... as an aside, if there's anything in particular you'd like to see, askin' for it doesn't hurt at all. i like comments. (and kudos. and stuff in general. thank you so much, i hope you have a wonderful day.)


	6. the battlefield is trembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't bite off more than you can chew, peekaboo!
> 
> contains canon-typical violence. i'd place this near the very beginning of this, uh, timeline i've got going on.

attacking them from behind is foolish. if you didn’t know who they were, or what they were capable of, you would imagine their cumbersome wings made sneak attacks easy. it’s a mistake he only makes once.

the king is sent flying back, and he uses the whip-tongue to brace himself, sliding back with a harsh grating screech from the ground, plus a grunt from him. pushing off, he launches a volley of razor sharp spades at them, and  _ they  _ shoot upwards—and he is dimly reminded that they, too, are a magical construct. no wonder it is that their wings are so agile. they land with a thump, bracing their wings before their body protectively.

“i don’t really want to fight.”

“a shame you have no choice in the matter,” he says, thunderous voice booming across the roof. he keeps his distance. they’re short-range to his long-ranged style, which is unfortunate for them, and fortunate for him.

… though, if fighting up close would make this more of a fight as opposed to a stalling game of tag, then so be it. they’re holding back—he can tell from the way they hold themself.

he scoffs.

the sharp snap of his weapon slices through the air as he spins it above his head and aims. they know what he’s preparing to do, and both his mouths grin as they tense, taking to the skies. he flings the point at them, and then watches as they abruptly drop altitude to dodge. he brings his weapon back to himself and goes for another try, though he gives it a longer wind-up to break their anticipation.

the spade shoots past them, and he recalls it. while he had been aiming for their neck, they manage one panicked wingbeat in the short moment—meaning that when the lasso closes, it’s around their waist instead. location isn’t necessarily that important, though.

he  _ pulls _ , watches with satisfaction as they drop like a rock, not expecting the sudden weight. he yanks harder and they begin to fight back, and—momentarily he, too, is caught off-guard, capable of feeling the power of those wings for himself. (well, he’d  _ felt _ them before—like being hit with a brick wall, really.)

spade arrows fly towards them, and they fling themself to the side. keeping both his hands on his weapon, he plants himself and follows through in the same direction, catching them off guard as they are sent tumbling too far. they land hard enough to send rubble flying, and he doesn’t need to have a soul to know that did some damage to their own.

then, he pulls once more, and in their momentary surprise, there is considerably less resistance. rather, there is none.

… because they’re now flying at him.

he rears back, prepares to spear them clean through the heart—and then falters, squints at the crackling, sparkling thing in their grip. at the last second, he manages to drop himself to the ground and they soar overhead. 

there’s a  _ boom _ that makes a noise he can feel more in his chest than anywhere else when they land. bracing himself on his hands and knees and glancing over his shoulder, he spots them standing behind him, the light firmly planted in the ground before them.

silently, he rises and recalls, the weapon flying back to his hand. they’re difficult to look at, like this. their light—their  _ sword _ , he notes—flickers in their grasp. his maniac grin falters as he considers how such a sword could be used on him…

but he calms.

he’s  _ strong _ , powerful enough to take down the three other kings without bearing a scar from the encounter. angel they may be, he is a weapon. there is no reason to stumble over himself.

“ _ there _ you are. how are you a lightner angel?”

steam escapes in thin rivulets off the sword, as if it’d been dunked in water. (he _ can _ see some sort of liquid... perhaps it is best not to think of it.)

“cherubim are a type  _ born _ to protect, to guard.”

“so, you mean to say, not to attack.”

with a push of his magic, he sends a multitude of spades in pursuit of them, and they hesitate—clearly they haven’t used their weapon in some time—before swinging their sword in a wide arc to bat the projectiles away, sending smoke and flame towards him before flying in the same direction.

“where it not for this, i would think you incapable of magic,” he voices, sidestepping the wave and putting up a particularly large spade-shaped bullet as a shield against them. the second they make contact, the shield shatters, sending them flying back.

with them stunned, he charges, cape trailing in his wake. gold-white wings flutter, instinctively attempting to flee, but their posture remains firm, unwavering with their sword at the ready. they crouch, and bring their sword back, telegraphing a strike from the side. as he draws closer, bares his teeth in the anticipation of closing said teeth around their neck, they abruptly flick their wrist, pointing the point of the blade to  _ his  _ neck instead.

he backpedals, glaring down at them from ‘neath the blue hood on his head.

from this view, he can see the extent that the earlier crash he forced had. their feathers are literally ruffled from attempting to cushion their fall, though the way they hold their shoulder clearly implies that their endeavor was in vain. they’re injured.

after a moment of holding his breath, he sticks his tongue out at them, grins, and his lower mouth swings his weapon at their feet.

it doesn’t work as he’d expect, and they push forward with a snarl, with him moving just out of time to have their sword nick his jaw. with a hiss, he abandons all attempts to minimize injury, wincing at the searing pain of the blade as he pushes it away with the back of his hand and moves to grab and fling them by the collar of their shirt with the other—

and then, that’s all.

the king glances ‘round the rooftop, brings his eyes to the sky, all done whilst scowling. they’ve gone and disappeared again, something that sits uneasy in his gut. (the mouth located there grumbles in distaste, and he brings his cloak around his body, accidentally brushing the back of his hand against the fabric and letting out a sharp exhale as the sensitive skin is grazed.)

clenching his fist, he resolves to do something about this… well, he refuses to refer to them as an angel. an angel implies a prophecy, implies a past that flickers at the edges of his vision, implies a force he does not know, a force he fears.

there are no angels in the dark. he doesn’t know how this... _bird_ got in here, but knight willing, he will see it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTREMELY sorry for forgetting to update. last week didn't actually really happen? i forgot it was sunday and monday until my coworker made a 'it's wednesday my dudes' joke and that snapped me back into reality sdfghgfd
> 
> anyways,, uh ! i've got a continuation of last chapter, followed by some, uh, mildly suggestive content??  
> thank you for reading <3


	7. always comes when called, regardless of anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lancer has a moment. (takes place following "darkness rolls in . . .")
> 
> contains angst.

he tries to remember what they’d say as he attempts to curl into a smaller ball, wiping his face. surely, something like—

_ i’m real, i’m fine _ , they had once said, after he’d woken up following a nightmare that would become real. a hum left them as he cried into their shoulder and they pressed their lips to the side of his head.  _ i am extremely powerful, and very very stubborn, so you should never worry about me. that’s my job. i do the worrying, here. _

except he does. the basement’s cold, and dark, and it’s not big enough for them to spread their wings like they do on the roof. maybe they’re supposed to do the worrying, but they’re not here, which means he has to do the worrying because no one else will…!

he  _ misses them _ , and he loves lesser dad and he loves everyone and he loves his dad despite what he’s done—and he misses them.

(you’re going to bring them here, and you can’t do that, they’ll get in trouble and they’ll get hurt  _ more _ —)

he thinks about the command they’d given him as his dad stood in the doorway, a single, “close your eyes until it’s over”.

(he knows, he knows! but he needs them! it doesn’t feel like anyone wants him around, like he’s bothering them, and even bad guys get lonely, and he knows he’s too little to do much, but that’s why he’s trying to help where he can—the sooner this is all over, the sooner everything’s okay, and that means they’ll be back and his dad will be happy, and he’ll be safe.)

before he can stop it, his chest’s doing the achy-thing, and he’s scrubbing away tears with his gloves—

_ let me see here _ , they said, and he showed them the scrape on his knee.  _ oh, i see. when something hurts, don’t forget to clean it and then do something nice for yourself. _

_ something nice? _

_ yep. see, i’m gonna clean this. _ they held him carefully, pointing to his injury with a flourish.  _ and then i’ll get you a darkburger. _

—he stumbles to his feet, and the hallways are so large and wide, and his footsteps echo as he makes his way to the bathroom. pulling over his stool—it’s more ladder-like than anything else—he hops up to the sink and washes his face after taking his gloves off. gotta stay clean.

okay, now what? do something nice…

something nice would be to… he shakes his head, sniffing and washing his face again, and he repeats this process a few more times before he’s just sobbing in front of the sink, trembling.

_ hey, love, it’s okay, _ says the zaza in his head,  _ you’re going to be okay. this isn’t forever. it can’t be, even if it seems that way. _

“hey, love,” begins zaza, and he hears them sniff, and then they’re picking his shaking form up and embracing him. they’re as big and small and soft and safe as he remembers. “it’s okay.”

he hiccups. “you came.”

“you’re going to be okay,” they tell him, kissing his forehead and wiping his tears. “the only thing that’s here forever is me, because i’m really strong and i always come when called, and sometimes even not then.”

they breathe out, and lancer keeps his eyes open, memorizes the look of their wings and the color and their voice and he nudges his head upwards so they’ll kiss it again.

“you shouldn’t worry about me. that’s my job.”

he looks at them. “were you worried?”

their shoulders stiffen, and their voice cracks when they say, “i am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ,,
> 
> maybe i'll aim for once a week. between college and work, i'm,, doing some things, y'know?
> 
> up next : an abrupt tone shift


	8. playing around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get a little too close for comfort, in that i, the writer, fall for the trope of "let's put em in a locked space together".
> 
> ... stuff gets suggestive. as usual, it's pre-game / canon, so the king hasn't lost himself entirely.

he’s never realized how  _ small _ they are ‘til they’ve been pressed against him. they’re leaning on his lower mouth, and if he opened said mouth, rather than exercise the  _ stupid _ amount of control he’s been using to keep it closed, well.

(well. things could go poorly, or quite well.)

“ _ careful _ , you’re stepping on my wing—“ they hiss, breaking his train of thought, and scowling, he lifts them.

his shrouded expression softens beneath the blue hood of his outfit, and, cradling them to his chest with one arm, he cards a clawed hand gently through their feathers as a silent apology. though, if you were to ask him to confirm it as such, he’d be more likely to answer by carding a clawed hand through the face.

“this space was never meant to accommodate someone of both your size and my own,” comes their murmur. no louder than that is necessary, given they’re speaking directly into his ear, cheek pressed against the collar of his cape.

he has to agree. the heat rising in his cheeks agrees as well.

truthfully, it’s an embarrassing place for them to be—hopefully he can work something out before anyone else finds them. grumbling, he lifts them a little higher so they’re at his eye level and not breathing warm air down his neck. he doesn’t completely  _ oppose _ the position, but it makes it a tad difficult to think. he shakes his head, only to regret it a moment later as the action has him knock his crown against the ceiling of the small room they’re trapped in. he grunts.

“i suppose i’ll just wait for the little one to call me.”

“... will he.”

_ they _ were the one who’d mentioned hide-and-seek was their reason for rushing into the library.

and while he can see in the dark, he can’t see their expression through their wings—it’s only fair, as they can’t see his own under the blue hood he wears. still, they  _ do _ turn their head towards him.

“right, i forgot his primary reason for even calling me is what i am being held by.”

abruptly, he raises them so their head bumps the top of the closet, and then he drops them—

—they inhale, sharply—

—and he catches them again, lifting them back up to his level.

he laughs at the way their little hands dig into his shoulders. “don’t snap at the arms carrying you.”

they growl. it’s an admirable effort.

“how did you  _ not _ know about such a trap in the castle, and how are you not more concerned.”

“... by the knight’s will, we’ll get out. or, at least,  _ i will _ .” it’s a shame they can’t see the big, sharp grin he directs at them, because he’d love to see their reaction to it.

“comforting!” good enough.

he exhales at their antics, and they squirm at the heavy breath against their face-wings, the large, primary ones tensing up around him. for their own dignity, he ignores it. (a lie. rather, he stores it away as ammo for later.)

“to answer your other question, i systematically looked through each room, yes, but that does not mean i anticipated a trapdoor in the library. you were the one who pulled that book out, regardless. … what book was it?"

a pause. “it was about worms.”

he growls. “ _ why _ is everyone in my kingdom obsessed with  _ worms _ .”

they shrug, waving one hand flippantly. he grabs it with his free hand, pushes it away from his face. without as much a hiccup, they continue, “i was trying to figure that out since i had the free time. i just want to be capable of understanding lancer and dukeman.”

“... rouxls?”

“i can’t pronounce that well. rolls? rouge? rooks? rowlsk?”

“like ‘rules’,” he says, adjusting his grip. if he were making them uncomfortable, he has no doubt they would’ve let him have it. still, he keeps his eyes on them. “as in, rules card.”

“card? isn’t there an ‘l’ in his last name?”

he truly does not care for talking about the duke, of all people, with them. still, it’s nice, in a strange way, to be teaching them something. weird. “k-a-a-r-d. surely, you’ve read his name before.” it’s plastered in several places.

a pause.

“what?”

they move their hands  _ a lot _ when they think he can't see. “my, uh, eyesight isn’t great. it’s kind of awful.”

really, now. is it wise to be telling him this? he’s not going to say no to more information, of course, but  _ someone _ ’s being a little too comfortable. “... and how do you see, then? echolocation?”

“oh, y’know, magic.”

ah, there’s the cautious little thing that he knows and, well—loves.

“terrible liar.”

a shake of their head, followed by what he’s certain is a grin, peeking out between their wings. “ _ excellent _ liar.”

-

he sighs, dramatically. “i fear i grow weary of supporting you. the weight of your wings is simply too great.”

they hold his shoulders a little tighter, as if he’s actually going to drop them. hah! “um, that’s a load of crap. you’ve carried heavier, and for longer.” something in him hums in delight at the confidence they have in his strength. they’re correct, of course.

“you have such a dirty mouth. you speak like this around my son?”

oh, there they go. now, the feathers on their smaller pair of wings fluff up, standing on edge. “absolutely not. how can you think so poorly of me, when you yourself are a far worse exa—“

the king uses this excuse to  _ squeeze _ , talons pressing into their side. they choke on their words, quieting. he holds them not nearly tight enough to bleed, but enough to serve as a certain and sharp reminder, easily felt through the side of their vest and shirt. unfortunately, they don’t make a sound, but their breath catches, slows to be mindful of him. breathe too deep, and they’ll undoubtedly be caught by the sharp edges. 

he could easily hold them like this, easily dig his claws in… but he’s a benevolent monarch who keeps their comfort in mind.

“you have it in you to draw my anger, and then, when i respond accordingly, you dislike it so.” with a chuckle, he notes how tense they’ve become. “what are you  _ really _ doing, bird?”

they turn their head away from him. “i want to tell you the truth without being killed. that’s all.”

_ (“... you think everyone has an agenda because you yourself do,” they’d mused while drunk. they’d been correct, of course.) _

a frown forms on his face. he’s not going to  _ kill _ them, but they’d never believe that. “i refuse to believe you are so simple-minded.”

“then you refuse to believe the truth,” they answer.

-

he hasn’t even mentioned how warm they are, because they  _ are _ , and by proximity, it’s making the entire enclosed space quite hot.

also, they keep… moving. 

“stop squirming.”

they snap their head towards him. “i’m trying to see if there’s a way out.”

and how’s that going for them?

he gives them a flat look that they can’t see, one entirely wasted on them, and with his free hand, he slams his fist into the closed entrance above them. there’s a creaking noise as it yields to him but does not give completely. eyes focused on them, he notes that their head is tilted upwards, and he considers how funny it is that in this proximity, they finally bare their neck to him.

he watches it move as they swallow. … nervous?

what, they think he’d turn his hand against them in such a fashion? pictured themself when they watched the motion?

“it’s too hot,” they say, and he feels the flutter of their feathers move against his cape, curled around him as they are. they continue shifting around, and he grumbles, letting them move as they please. 

when they settle at last, they’re pressed well into his arms, face against his cape once more. it’s his turn to swallow. they attempt to move their wings, and then let out the smallest noise of distress he’s ever heard, and his mind immediately responds with, ‘alright, do something, you big fool’.

after a moment, he decides to just let himself indulge—there’s just something about them he wants to soothe—nuzzling his cheek against their downy feathers and hair, running another hand through their primary wings like he’s embracing them, because he is. they squirm, and squeeze their hand on his shoulder.

he actually has no idea if it’s comforting them, but he watches their shoulders drop and supposes this is good enough. it’s not as if they’ve denied him entirely, regardless.

(the thought, the very concept that  _ he _ could calm them is appealing for a reason he can’t explain.)

alright, if it’ll lower their distress, he’ll brute-force a way out. he switches them to his non-dominant hand, rears back, and prepares for his knuckles to be in a reasonable amount of pain.

(nothing he cannot handle, or even anything he would react to, but if he plays it up a little so they do something, it’s not his fault.)

-

they emerge in the basement. (prison-basement.)

after stretching their wings, they’re in a decidedly better mood. a decent enough mood that at the sight of him rubbing a hand over his knuckles, they draw near (it’s bait, and they’re both aware, but at their core he has no other choice than to hopelessly believe that they care more than they’d admit) and say,

“you, um, have healing magic?”

do  _ they? _

“no,” he answers, honestly. he‘d never learned because there was no reason to. “why, are you offering?”

“i’m not good with it, but if you keep up that attitude, you won’t get it at all,” they say, not answering the question. he offers them his hand. they take it in both of their own, and his heart, in its chest, does some sort of flutter—or flip-flop.

they take a deep breath in, and then one out, and then there’s a warmth that spreads through his body, and his breath hitches at it soothes the phantom pain in his cheek, the kind that old scars occasionally ebb with, the kind that’s half-mental, half-physical.

‘not good with it’, hah. if they’re capable of soothing emotional damage as well, then they’re leagues above.

(ah, no—perhaps it’s simply out of the fondness he holds for them, perhaps that soothes him.)

the two arrive at the elevator, and they stand, wings twitching as it opens. it is far smaller than he recalls it to be.

“... we’ll fit,” he says.

-

(they do, but their wings make the entire thing a little bit of an ordeal.)

-

there’s a crash from the end of the hallway, followed by the growl of an engine, though it’s simply lancer making the noise with his mouth as he cycles, and then he stops before them as they exit the elevator.

“oh!” he exclaims. “i found you! i didn’t know father was playing hide-and-seek, too!”

“uh,” they say. “oh. he sure was, yes.”

the king narrows his eyes at the dirt stains on the rug, and they step in for damage control.

“i’ll handle it.”

again, the thought of,  _ despite being a lightner, they would make an excellent consort _ flits through his mind as he watches them lift his son with one arm before holding the bike under the other. lancer, from over their shoulder—they move a wing out of the way, tucking both of them more to one side—waves a hand.

“it’s been a while since we played, da—father!” he grins, toothily. “we should do it more!” he says, and the king, after a long moment, waves back.

… true. that was fun.

his lower mouth chuckles, and, grumpily, he sweeps his cape over it, making his way back to his own room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi it's been a month ! between school and college and college and school, i haven't had the spoons to post, though the commute between both of 'em has given me enough time to write, so i have..,, A Lot of stuff stored up over here, haha.
> 
> shout out to w0nd3rlei's really sweet comment that filled me with the determination to continue posting ='D!

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes your friends on discord are correct and it's time for self-care. if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos or comment, or both. i'd really appreciate it. =P
> 
> (also if you have any ideas, questions, concerns, let me know!)


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